


maybe you were the ocean when i was just a stone

by caesarous



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, College, M/M, Pining, Soulmates, rated m for lotsa swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesarous/pseuds/caesarous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, by the time college strolls up, Foggy’s pretty sure his mate is a male model for the gay equivalent of Playboy or whatever, and the only missing thing in this equation is his eyes; Foggy can’t for the life of him figure out the eyes, and isn’t that the biggest damned disappointment of the whole soulmate clusterfuck. Aren’t eyes supposed to be the reflection of one’s soul? Well, guess Foggy’ll be hooking up with, like, <i>satan</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe you were the ocean when i was just a stone

**Author's Note:**

> [originally posted on tumblr.](http://paulcelan.tumblr.com/post/117065608971/maybe-you-were-the-ocean-when-i-was-just-a-stone)

Imagine a soulmate world where mates identify each other by looks: as time passes, they meet more and more people throughout their life and from some of them they’ll get a certain feature stuck in their head: the way somebody’s eyes crinkle when they’re snickering at some stupid pun or how their lips look curled firmly into a frown. They just click with you, these little things, and seem so reminiscent of someone you’ve never known but have been seeing — in fragments — all your life. This is how a collective, puzzle-like image of a soulmate forms in your head, muddy at first, a blur at the back of your mind, which gets cleaner the more laugh lines you fleetingly look at, the more bones, shifting gently under skin.

So, by the time college strolls up, Foggy’s pretty sure his mate is a male model for the gay equivalent of Playboy or whatever, and the only missing thing in this equation is his eyes; Foggy can’t for the life of him figure out the eyes, and isn’t that the biggest damned disappointment of the whole soulmate clusterfuck. Aren’t eyes supposed to be the reflection of one’s soul? Well, guess Foggy’ll be hooking up with, like,  _satan_.

Of course, that’s when his roommate happens. His hella hot (he _so_ called the male model shit), teeth-rottingly sweet, blind as a  _motherfucking mole_  roommate, to be exact. Fuck Foggy’s life, seriously. (And how he— Matt, it’s Matt now,  _jesus christ_ — gives awkward, painfully endearing grins to all of Foggy’s dumb, trashy jokes, like it’s not that big of a deal? That shit’s been sitting in his head since  _fifth grade_ , okay.)

Naturally, it then turns out Matt had an accident when he was, like, nine (which basically means that Foggy had a chance when he was  _never_ ). “I think,” says Matt, a bit wistfully, but with the certainty of a man who’s had to rely on his own gut for a long, long time, “I would feel it when it happened. It’s, uh, sight isn’t everything, you know? There has to be a way to _see_ this, like with everything else. I just have to figure it out.” And Foggy says, “Sure thing, pal, just don’t forget to hit up your best man when the capital W happens, yeah?” Matt politely doesn’t mention that they met, like, two days ago,  _c'mon_ , Foggy, you big dweeb, and it is yet another reason to a) fucking love that fucker and b) set his shitty life on fire and throw it into a dumpster re:  _not fucking fair_.

But, yeah, whatever, so the comment about some weird-ass soulmate vibes stings, so what? Maybe Foggy’s too much of a screw up for the whole soulmate crap anyway (which is not entirely unheard of, since, you know,  _unrequited love_  and all that), and either way it’s not very nice to crush a man’s dream because fate said so. Fate clearly has brain damage if it thinks a person with no sight and a person with no brains are a soulmate match made in heaven. (Or it has a cough TERRIFIC cough sense of humour and a liking towards seventies sitcoms, and Foggy honestly doesn’t know which is worse.)

All in all, what it basically means in Nelson-speak is that Foggy chickens his way out of the situation and keeps his piehole shut. Good move, Foggy, it certainly won’t come back later to  _bite you in the ass_.

And it’s all fun and games, really, because Matt turns out to be  _awesome_ , until, of course, The Hot Greek Girl comes along, and Foggy realises he’s kind of, a little bit, a teensy pinch heartbroken. Which sounds just about as bad as it looks on paper, and the entire following ordeal is one of the cringiest periods in the life of both Foggy and the whole universe in general, since the scale of sheer  _awkward_ is grand as fuckin’  _cricket balls_  (Matt really should stop bombarding him with kooky random Animal Planet facts,  _sweet tapdancing baby jesus_ , a man has needs, sure, but Foggy doubts knowing the weight of insect testicles and its percentage ratio in comparison to the total body mass is one of them).

So, to make matters worse — if only for the sake of upholding their reputation of absolute dumb shits, — they get so  _borracho_ after the inevitable break-up (toldja, ya numskull— ow, fucking  _ow_ , that’s  _so_ — how’s grati-gratu- _fuck_ , gratuitous in Spanish,  _asshole_?), not only _Matt fuckin’ Murdock_ starts seeing some weird-ass green fairies (Foggy cries tears of joy and praises the Lord for a wondrous miracle, ‘cause he’s a  _dick_ — Foggy, not the Lord. “Jesus didn’t die for your shit,” laughs Matt, ever the Catholic), but Foggy also kinda slips up and, in full dick-mode, says, actually, a lot of bullshit, which in the end boils down to Matt’s mouth spewing dirty lies, since the guy wouldn’t see his soulmate if the fucker were sitting right under his nose, let alone some hella trippy fairies. Yeah, Foggy just really needs help; but not, apparently, a bigger shovel, thank god for small mercies.

“Que eres gilipollas,” (undoubtedly) swears Matt a bit too somberly for Foggy’s own liking. “The word you’re looking for is  _gilipollas_ and it means you’re an ass.”

“Well,” says Foggy, dedicatedly digging himself deeper, “maybe I’m _your_ ass.” Off of Matt’s disbelieving as much as long-suffering  _the more you know (rainbow™)_  look, he adds, “Your ass of a mate. You can’t see shit, you know basically  _fuck all_  about how they’re s’posed to look, so step up your game, try me.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Matt laughs out a (shaky?  _what?_ ) breath, “okay, I guess.”

Foggy doesn’t have much to go on re: how the everloving fuck this is gonna go down, and it should seem obvious as sun in retrospect (currently: moon and stars and all the galaxies fluttering above their heads), but it’s still baffling to feel Matt’s hands on his face, twitching ever so slightly with a giddiness Foggy has no idea how to explain away except for his good looks (he is a joke). It’s so dumb and futile, really, to try to describe Matt’s hands, the way they’re trained to touch, or how it all turns Foggy’s drunken mind inside out. It’s gonna sound real cheesy no matter how you phrase it, and Foggy does cheesy only on special occasions, like  _never_ , and anyway, you can’t always describe what or how you feel, which is okay: words don’t have to try so hard.

(When Matt first told Foggy about the so-called soulmate vibes, he also said he remembered the worry lines, out of fucking everything; a little girl about his age playing in the sandbox, her hands too clumsy for a royal castle built so frail.)

“Could you, uh,” Matt breathes in, out, keeps his hands slow, “frown, maybe?”

Foggy snorts, because, dude, once again, there ain’t no scale big enough for  _that_. “You really think this worth a shot?”

Matt hums, hands stilling, and then pulls them away. After a beat: “You gonna freak out if I say I can hear your heartbeat?”

Well.

“ _Sure as shit_ ,” Foggy replies vehemently and not nearly fast enough.

Matt sees that ( _ha_ ) as his cue to continue instead of, you know, shutting the fuck up and proclaiming alcohol as the sole responsible entity in this whole train wreck of a situation, and so Foggy’s in for a long ride that’s more like a nerd and nerdier science convention dedicated to the study of intricate inner workings of a human heart that can and should be for the sake of all listeners (one sad fuck) summed up as “thanks for the kind offer to touch your devilishly handsome face, Foggy, but I might have figured we were kinda-maybe soulmates a coupla days after we first met due to my super-hearing jutsu, but I wasn’t really sure  _‘cause I'm fucking blind_ , so thanks for basically confirming my suspicions, it was very nice of you”. Unbelievable. The amount of shit Foggy puts up with is un-fucking-believable. They should give medals for that: conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in dealing with Matthew Michael Murdock’s  _steaming pile of bull_. Is that a thing? That should be a thing. Foggy will  _definitely_ make it a thing.

“You’re the  _ultimate_ healee— healee- _something_. Being an asshole is your superpower. I swear to god, once I’m sober enough I will  _end_ you. I don’t care if you’re the prettiest duck this world has ever witnessed or my  _fucking soulmate_ , you’re goin’ down.”

“You mean on you?” Matt offers brilliantly, because he was raised by wild clowns.

“Ha ha  _ha_ ,” Foggy seethes and doesn’t strangle him through sheer force of love and the length of a prison sentence.

Love, huh? He thinks they can work with that.


End file.
